Through the Darkness, Under the Light
by H.A. Ortiz
Summary: Prontera is on a state of high alert as Uriel rides away on his mission. What waits in the night, and under the Ordo's very nose?
1. Prologue, Chapter i: Legend Born

They were, simply put, the Lord's finest... 

...These members of the Ordo; of the most secretive, and yet the most well-known of the 5 knightly orders of Prontera- the five Ordos all upholding the separate Virtues in their own ways, all with power, all with strength, all with courage and honour. But this Ordo, the Skull Thrice Pierced, was the mightiest and the most glorious of them all. The Ordo embodying Faith; The Ordo Vix Orbis. The Order of the Scarlet Circles.

And Raziel... this brooding young man with the dark expression, deep violet locks cascading over his face, and silver armor heavily accented with black trim and rich purple cloth, who knelt now in silent prayer and at the end of 3 weeks' fasting, holding himself proudly and resolutely; Raziel Daltizius, son of Amanan the Stoic, son of Ezekiel the Bloody Handed, son of Hechiah the Pure, was now to enter into full membership of the Ordo. He would don the sacred signet of the Order, and he would proudly wear the sacred scripts of purity blessed countless times over by the Ordo Chaplains, gifted to the most trusted, the most dependable, and the most faithful of the holiest of the holy.

Raziel Daltizius, after 5 years' time with his Sponsor and Mentress performing his Final Task, now was moments away from full Initiation. Opening his rich brown eyes suddenly, he turned his head only enough to allow them to swivel, and to see the slim, fair hand upon his shoulder. To his ears floated the contained, delicate words of his Mentress, a Priestess known to him only by the chosen name of Karmasutra; It was time to continue.

He nodded. Yes, he thought to himself, it is time. Time to explore this grand monastery's halls, to take my place at the sides of the holiest and most powerful warriors of Rune Midgar, to achieve the legacy my forebears have lain down for me; It is time... for my future as part of the Fortis Tutorae, the Crusaders and Paladins that have scoured the countrysides again and again of the foul daemonic blight threatening the people. It is my destiny.

This corner of Prontera was deserted now, and a distant clocktower chimed 2 strokes, each sound echoing rustily and heavily through the damp night air. From the smokestacks of several houses about the two, columns of darkness hovered in the dark sky of the early morning, the silvery light of the sickly moon casting strange shadows upon the muddy, brown-tinged snows of the streets. It was cold. A cold, cloudy, dark night with only the last, desperate rays of Luna's fingers clawing at the depth of the nocturnal abyss among the houses. Raziel stood, his form breaking Luna's reach and sending a looming shadow up against the walls of the towering, Gothic cathedralesque building before him, the Monastery-Fortress of the Ordo Vix Orbis. Before him were the towering steel and oaken doors that dwarfed the two of them so easily, which Karmasutra silently ghosted up against. The sheer size and forboding nature of the construction before her intimidated Raziel, though he showed no sign of it through his steely, stoic gaze; she showed nothing either, through what showed under her hood.

Lightly, she rapped at the door, issuing a long, complicated rhythm created from her knuckles and palm. Though it was barely louder than a dying whisper, each percussion resounded in Raziel's ears like the strikes of a fiery maul against red-hot steel. He blinked only once as she concluded, and rested her head against the wooden barrier. Within minutes, he heard from her faint whispers, her voice flitting breathlessly across the humid winter night to him, monotone and in a language he only barely understood.

Hardly a second passed after her words fell to the earth when the doors slowly, proudly gave way, silently opening and being replaced by blackness; the gaping maw of the fortress, frightening in its own right. As torches were silently lit by somber friars and accolytes, the passageway showed itself. For a split moment, Raziel imagined the end of the torch-lit path to be within the hellish frost of the Infernal Abyss itself, but for only a moment. His pace was brisk as he returned to his place 3 steps behind his Mentress, as the two retreated deeply within the innards of the Monastery.

Trepidation and excitement haunted every breath that Raziel released into the dank of the stone hall.

She knew her way well. Had she been blind, or had the torches gone out, she could have easily found her way through the passages without misstep or misdirection. Not a moment's hesitation would have caused her to falter in this, what was surely now her home, one and only. For what seemed as hours, the pair walked in silence, with only the sounds of their boots and their breath company for their ears. It was a friendly sound, this silence; It was one they had shared with each other innumerable times during his Final Preparations and Meditations. They did not need words; she was his shield, his boon, the one who protected him and strengthened him spiritually and physically as they wandered Rune Midgar's wildernesses and outands. She was his teacher; Everything he knew, everything we was and would become, was given and sculpted by her. She was a very good Sponsor.

Ahead, imperceptably at first, but steadily growing within the stony confines of their trail, the Gregorian chants of monks and priests began to pervade the air, and invade the air where their breaths and steps had whisped through for so much of their journey. The constance of the chants filled the passage as they drew nearer to their destination, and the scents of a thousand sweet incenses swirl'd about them, filling their nostrils and invigorating the dankness of the air, till it became almost pleasant. Ahead a door showed itself, an open archway of warm grey stone, through which a room of rose and scarlet showed itself. Warm wind from a giant chalice of flame rolled over them as they approached, and flickering flames sent cheerfully dancing light across the walls bedecked with banners of purple and scarlet.

Their chants were recognizeable now, solemn words now marching softly through the winds;

_'Through the darkness of the night; __Our faith fly true_

_Through the perils of the Blight; Our hand stay true_

_As the daemon takes to flight; Our righteous anger burn true_

_As the Ordo slays and fights; Our Ordo stand true'_

Karmasutra's form suddenly halted, then turned to face him. Slender arms guided her fair hands and long fingers to her hood, and she gently lowered the sackcloth to reveal short, gravity-spiting locks of golden thread about her round face. Piercing blue eyes speared into his soul from the pale skin, and she spoke softly, but with great gravity and authority, "Raziel Daltizius. You have been witnessed to perform acts of courage and valour time and time again. Your record has shown you a daemon slayer, a witch hunter, and a judge of the sinful time and time again, having banished and judged a score of wickedhearts in your time as a Crusader for God... We have seen this, Raziel; Do you confess to it?"

"As God is my witness, and my Faith and Honor my Sword and Shield, I do confess; I am what you have seen, and I have done what you have said. I have no shame nor regret." His face was stony, revealing just as much thought as the woman before him revealed, and his voice was controlled, levelled, and just as quiet as hers. He stood tall, straight, and proud; His muscular frame of 200 pounds filling in his armor perfectly, his six foot four inch height just barely touching the top of his head to the smooth brick of the ceiling in the tomb-like confines.

A flicker of a smile stealthily appeared and fled from her thin lips, as she stepped backwards once, then twice. "Then step forward, Raziel Daltizius, for your sentence."

Without a moment's hesitation, the young Crusader Raziel Daltizius, son of Amanan the Stoic, son of Ezekiel the Bloody Handed, son of Hechiah the Pure, took his steps into the room, and into the very fabrics of Legend itself.


	2. Prologue, Chapter ii: Legend Scorned

The talons scraped against the cobbles in the road, speeding their owner and its load along the street leading into the town. The sparse trees dotting the vert landscape around the two were naught but brown and green, mingling into amorphous blurs as the giant Peco Peco kicked at the stones. Atop the golden, colorful animal, a knight poised himself perfectly still, head lowered with his green-tinged, silvery winged helm shielding his eyes from the sun that stood before him. One cruelly fashioned gauntlet held both sets of reins in a single fist, the other holding from his body a tremendous polearm posessing a dangerous aura. Its blade, held perfectly still in the rushing wind of the scattered space, cut a trail in the air with a soft, shrilly-pitch whistle of wind on steel.

Closer and closer, never slowing its pace, the Peco and its Knight approached the town gate, and closed in on the lone swordsman walking upon the path ahead of them. Grimacing, the hand upon his weapon clenching tightly, the knight urged his mount to greater speeds. The raptor, with no signs of fatique anywhere upon its body, almost flew along the highway with a strained screech, right towards the leatherclad man who now turned, brilliant blue eyes assessing the missile streaking towards him, then its burden atop its aurulent plumage, stopping to watch as the Peco Peco continued to race closer and closer...

...and then past him, the air dragged through the vaccuum the two had created in the air grasping at the swordman, trying to pull him with the reawakening spirits of the tempest that chased the being to disturb their slumber. Clasping a hand to his scabbard and another to his face, he stood his ground on the side of the road until the last of the vengeful gale had given up on him. Blinking, the young swordsman shook his head, the gold of his fine, if dirty, hair flying up and whipping at his head with each motion, then looked after the animal and rider quickly disappearing into the city of Izlude before him. A small grin crept onto his cherubic face, and he began to laugh, remarking softly to himself, "Was that the third time that guy's passed me?"

He shook his head again, not hard enough for his hair to be disturbed even more, and he pushed his hand through the dirty blonde strands, pushing some out of his face and freeing his field of view of obstruction. "I wonder how that can be possible?" He shrugged slightly, pushing against the leather mantle that protected his neck and shoulders, and then readjusted the cracked, filthy leather gloves he wore on his hands. They reeked of blood, but this did not bother him much. The entirety of his leather armor was red-tinged, though not from the usual dye. It was what happens when one has to learn for oneself the arts of war.

He looked down. At his leather-clad feet was a burlap sack which carried all of his treasures that he did not wear at his belt or on his body. It had opened and spilled its contents upon the cobbles; assorted clubs, meats, apples and carrots, bottles of blood, raw ores and cards of assorted colors and types, tufts of hair and feathers, and several other items that might be of value to merchants. After a silent moment of looking for everything that had spilled, he knelt down and began to slowly and carefully replace what had almost been lost.

He picked up a dirty scrap of violet, and cocked his head to the side. He had never noticed this item before. Pulling from a pouch at his belt a small magnifying glass, he held the sorry excuse for cloth up for further inspection. That was when he noticed the bland, circular clasp with a rectangular indent upon it. A hair ribbon. Dropping the glass back into his pouch, he stood and regarded the item with a vague look of confusion, as his mind rolled in his head, looking for when he might have possibly picked up such a rag. What man, in their right mind, would have this, a woman's article of clothing? The swordsman contemplated dropping the ribbon right then and there. His train of thought did not progress much farther then that, when his eyes were buried by an avalanche of dandelion strands. Without thinking, he flipped his head back, the offensive hair flying to rest upon his scalp, and he reached to the errant strands, wrapping the cloth about a clump securely and tying it tightly. His eyes blinked once in minor confusion, and his hands fell to his side.

The day was bright, full of sun and natural glee. Sol's rays revealed everything in the open, bringing their full colors and natures to light. The horizon in one direction grand emerald seas of wavy, flowing grass, punctuated every now and then by solitary islands or small archaepaleagos of trees, pushing their ways up from the wind-blown vegetation and eventually uniting with each other to form masses of forest, finally ending the grass's hold upon the landscape. The sky was clear and cloudless, a flawless fabric of blue stretching across the expanse of the horizon, contrasting with the carpet of green upon the earth.

The swordsman, however, wasn't looking at the serenity of the simple canvas of nature; his azure eyes were fixed upon the city instead. It was still here, still a bright opal encrusted among the emerald and sapphire upon the earthly ring. It was the First and the Greatest City, to him; Izlude, his home anf refuge. He'd been gone, travelling Rune Midgar for his entire adolescent life, but he knew in his heart that it was still the same, friendly, and peaceful city he had once known. Smiling, his things gathered in his pack, he walked calmly through the grand arches of white, stony brick.

His smile soon faded to a frown of puzzlement as more confusion overtook his face. The streets, once bustling with merchants, children, women, and men of all sizes and classes, were now deserted... and... bloodstreaked. The stone was marred, the buildings were scorched and battered. Where was everyone? What had happened to this fair city? Was it attacked? What had attacked it? He blinked, as if to clear his vision, as he stopped walking to simply look around him.

Suddenly a blast of frigid blood swirled about his head, and his body was wracked with the pain of a thousand shards of ice ravaging the flesh. Head snapping back to utter a savage cry of bewildered rage, his throat was stopped up with the frost, as his whole body, contorted and pushed into the air, froze solid in the middle of the ruined streets. His entire form had grown numb, unfeeling, paralyzed and suspended, with only his eyes and ears functional.

From the immobile swordsman ran a trail of ice shards, scattered and ranging in size, shape, and shades of frosty blue-white. This trail had served the rivet into the ruts of the cobblestone even deeper grouts, which had only the single, unintended purpose of revealing the location of a grimy, sour-faced and crooked-bodied wizard. Clad in a brown cloak, with white and green trim all along his clothing and accouterment, and a black wizard's cap perched upon his greying skull, the short, gnomeish sorcerer squinted at the young man with an expression of pure contempt. He ventured a foot forward. Instantly, he could recognized what he had trapped in his icy bewitchment, and the air about his hands began to crackle with growing electrical charges. The swordsman could only watch in horror, to match the wizard's uncontrolled glee and sadistic smile, as a ball of white-hot, harnessed lightning surrounded the caster's clasped hands.

The twang of an arrow was barely audible over the cacophany of the stillborn devastation, as the wizard's head, then body, was jerked to the side, his expression changing to one of mortal shock. The very tip of an arrow portruded from his temple, as blood splattered the cobbles and the dead grass under his feet. His body fell to the ground with a sickening thud, his mouth opened to release one failed breath, before the shroud of Death glazed his dark eyes and stopped his ears and throat. The electricity dispersed harmlessly from his hands into the stones, and his form lay limp as another man walked to the corpse.

Ignoring the still-ensnared warrior, the black-clad man, who carried a bow on his shoulder, an arrow quiver, and a glove and thimble, knelt down by the wizard's torso and pushed him to his back. His long, green hair hid his face as a hand reached to his back, pulling from his belt a long, wicked knife of jagged steel and deadly points. He was finished within the next minute, and he stood, the head of the wizard hanging by his hair from the belt of the renegade, the blood dripping and drying on the hunter's pants. Kicking the body away, the green-haired man's face finally acknowledged the presence of another person in the town. His eye was grey, the eye of a sharpshooter; the other was covered by a grey eyepatch. His face was angular, sunken, and gaunt, decorated by the scars of a hundred battles. His hair fell about his face, framing the ghastly features in a sea of scraggly weed, and he appeared most sinister and evil, as a demon in human form. Tilting his head, the frightening ghast of a human began to step toward the swordsman, then stopped, looking his frozen form up and down.

There was no smile like that last murderer had.

Pulling out his bow, and two arrows from his quiver, the rogue archer only grunted hollowly as he brought the tips of his arrows to bear upon the frozen victim. He was completely emotionless; when the young man's eyes closed and whimpers began to flail and struggle through the ice of his throat, there was neither grin nor flinch from the bowman. His eye did leave his target for an instant, however, in a moment of absolute and unquestionable fear, and he let the arrows fly as a man clad in the armor of a crusader roared, his barbaric yaulp echoing meatily through the expanses of the dead city and reverberating from the ancient stone, causing the minds of the hunter and the swordsman to waver from the sheer force of his spirit upon his mighty breath. The ice about the swordmaster cracked, and, as an arrow pierced him through the shoulder and a withering torment shot from his shoulder and fanned through his entire being, he fell backward and downward, eyes screwed shut and mouth finally uttering the screams he had been forced the choke back in his frigid prison.

He heard only one sentence before passing out. He had uttered only one reply. With the sickening sounds of steel passing through flesh, and the splatterings of blood upon stone and screams upon the sky, his eyes opened to see he had landed in the arms and the lap of an angel. Her golden halo framing her rounded face lit up her amazingly blue eyes, and her lips, thin but lovely as all angels' are, mouthed at first... but soon, soft, soothing, ethereal sounds wafted to his ears and took the forms of the saintly being's first words to him, caressing his shattered mind with tender aural embraces and a cleansing purity found only in the beings of God.

"...what is your name?" was all he heard from her.

And all he could manage to choke from his pain-wracked, shivering form, was one silent reply, "Uriel Zarium..."

Then all was dark. 


	3. Chapter I: Gathering of the Faithful

"That was an extremely foolhardy thing to do, Zarium..." Raziel's sienna eyes stared blankly at the back of Uriel's head, his hands preoccupied with cleaning his blade as he sat upon the scorched rock in the dead grass. The wind picked up and jostled the locks falling over his face, freeing his hidden eye momentarily before settling once more. His armor had scorch marks all about it, streaked with the black of drying blood over the black of armor dyes. The fabrics and leathers of his cape and sash were tattered, torn, ripped through by the myriad forces of Destruction in what was a most fierce and heated encounter with the minions of the Blight of Darkness.

Uriel only rolled his head back jauntily, with all but a clump of hair under his deviruchi-clasped ribbon falling backward to dangle under his cranium. Looking into Raziel's hardened eyes with his own smiling orbs of sky, he responded light-heartedly, "Hey, we're all alive, aren't we?" His arms were behind him, supporting his torso as his legs were being attended to. His own lavender-tinged armor was heavily marked; scratched and cut through in several places and dented and smashed in in several others. His cape and sash, though usually of a violet hue, were now stained black with blood and grime. His light lavender hair was caked with bloodied dust, and his face was home to a score of scratches and minor cuts. His boots were off, exposing the dark black and sickly purples of badly bruised skin, his feet, once crushed, now looking almost normal save for a sickly yellow hue. Upon one of his thighs was a horrid-looking gash, which was succumbing easily to the efforts of the young assassin binding his wound. His gauntlets, evil looking talons of dark violet, seemed to have been the only parts of his body to have survived unscathed. Wincing suddenly, Uriel gasped out a tiny laugh as he resettled himself upon his shoulders, seeking a more comfortable position as the woman of silent retribution yanked roughly on his leg, breathing sharply, "Devilangel, can't we be just a tad more gentle, please? I have a scratch there!"

Laughing as she looked up at his face, yanking on his leg once more for good measure, the assassin clad in white at his leg finished her bandaging and tilted her head, "I'm sorry, I couldn't see the scratch through the canyon in your thigh. All better now, though." Slapping his bandage, she stood up and dusted off her tattered leather skirt, then flipped back her lengthy snow-bleached hair from her face, letting it all fall neatly down her back like a fresh snowdrift. She was dressed in completely white form-fitting leather, with gloves of smooth, blood-stained leather adorned with a ring of the Bloodcircle and a ring of the Skull Thrice Pierced, bloodspattered assassin's corset, blood-tinged skirt with boots adorned with similar mortal dye. At her side slung two katars, hand-held blades used for the assassins' own special forms of death. Her skin was slightly tanned, and her eyes were a warm emerald, showing more soul than most killers were willing to spare. Smiling just a little sadistically as Uriel cringed and grabbed at his leg, she backed away, her leather-soled boots making almost no sound against the incinerated remains of vegetation underfoot, and she disappeared into the shadow of a nearby tree that had somehow miraculously survived the struggle.

Above her, barely visible in the sparse foliage of the tree's remaining canopy, the form of Steel Eyes the hunter could be seen scouring the landscape. After a moment, he pulled off his goggles and called down to Raziel, "No sign of any other cultists, I think we're clear for a good long rest." At Raziel's nod of understanding, the hunter packed his gear and jumped down from the tree, landing lightly in a patch of blackened dirt at the foot of the tree. He straightened, brushing dust and ruined matter from his dark hair with a wild flurry of his gloves, then shook his head violently to be sure that all debris was gone from his head. As Uriel lay on his back and closed his eyes, the Hunter checked the rest of his equipment, still standing, and then replaced the dark hat he usually wore upon his head; "Sweet Gent," he had called it. It metched pefectly with his leather vest, worn pants, and rigid gloves.

Of the five present in what used to be a clearing in the forest northwest of Prontera, Steel Eyes was the cleanest one, with no part of his body defiled by the blood of heretics and his armor only slightly singed, though the darkness of it made such burnmarks invisible. Coincidentally, he was also the only one of the group not wearing a ring of the Order of the Scarlet Circle; Namely because he wasn't a member of the Ordo. He was hired for his tracking skills by the Assassin hidden behind him four days ago in the Archer Village of Payon. The Ordo had gotten word of an Abysscult in the forests around Prontera, but they needed someone who knew the signs of a heretical presence in the dense flora. Steel Eyes, true to his chosen name, knew all of them and more.

At the moment, however, it seemed that they wouldn't need a tracker anymore with the loss of forest all around them. Quite a few trees still smouldered, and from somewhere farther off came the stench of immolated flesh.

Slender hands came to perch upon Raziel's shoulders as he finished cleaning his simple steel blade. Replacing it in its home at his waist, he reclined his head to listen to the whispered report from the golden-headed priestess that had come up behind him. He nodded, whispering a command back to her, and with her affirmation she slid her hands from his pauldrons and slowly shifted around him, to kneel next to the Knight who lay in horrid condition on the barren carpet of dull tan. Groaning at the touch of her hand, his body slowly relaxed under the warm cerulean glow of her healing touch. The wounds upon his face slowly closed together, leaving only token splotches of drying blood on his face and neck. His legs slowly returned to their original colors, his feet looking normal once more, as the bloodstain at his thigh ceased its invasion of the white linen wrapped securely about him. Eyes opening slowly, Uriel smiled up at Karmasutra, remarking softly, "Again you come to my rescue. My hero...ine." Grinning a little, crinkling the corners of his eyes, he slowly sat himself upright, never taking his eyes off of her round, serene face, which held a soft, enigmatic smile of its own.

Her thin, lovely lips opened, allowing a gently sentence to slip through between them, "Again, it's your fault, you insane little man." Laughing lightly and sitting back with a tilted head, she smiled still wider, "But then, it wasn't a mistake to bring you into the Ordo. Time and again, you've saved our lives. I'm no hero, not in comparison to you, at least. You're reckless, but you're true." Blinking once, her sapphire eyes slipped to regard Raziel, "Isn't that right, Raziel?" The crusader only grunted, closing his eyes and looking away. Uriel's grin faltered, then died at Raziel's reaction. Karma quickly brought her mouth to his ear, breathing encouragement, "Don't feel too bad, young one. Raziel is like that to everyone." Leaning back, and standing up slowly, she added, "He's probably one of our strongest guildmates, and understandably, the strong do not like possible threats to their power." She glanced at Raziel, then back to Uriel quizzically, "You shouldn't be a threat though, so... I suppose that's not the case, is it?"

"The case is simply this; He's a reckless, however lucky, fool of a knight." His violet eyes flashed angrily at the semi-surprised woman. "I despise stupidity, and he displays prodigious amounts of it. We had a battle strategy set out very clearly for the confrontation and annhialation of the Wickedhearts, and Ribbon-Boy decides to screw us all over and simply jump onto the back of the nearest dragon, endangering himself needlessly and ruining a time-tested and reliable battle plan. That's my case, Chaplain. Are you happy now?"

Bringing a hand to her small shoulder, the Priestess quickly nodded and looked to the ground, "I'm satisfied. I apologize for offending you, Fortis Tutor." She looked away from the two of them and sought out her own spot on the yellowed grass, her face devoid of emotion once more, though slightly more flushed now... possibly with shame? Raziel closed his eyes and crossed his arms, steel clanking against steel as he began his meditation. Uriel merely sighed and pulled on his greaves, before falling onto his back again to look up at the fluffy clouds wallowing lazily overhead.

Steel Eyes had disappeared long ago, presumeably to scout with Devilangel for more cultists. They would be back soon, and then they'd be on the move again. With any luck, their groupleader would be in a better mood, or Uriel would begin to start taking the mission seriously. Either one would do.

They had been gone for exactly 3 weeks, purging Prontera of the festering boil of the Abyssclan deep in its forests. Returning, all still alive, however battered and bruised each of the five were, they were hailed by the jubilant, God-fearing populace as Living Saints, heroes in the highest degree. The streets before their broken procession was paved with flowers of every possible species and variety, blanketing the roads with fragrant, multicolored carpets of floral beauty. The buildings around the people were white, preshly painted and cleaned brick and stone topped with clean wood and tiling. The entire city, the last refuge and First City of all the Free and Holy peoples of Rune Midgar, Prontera, was a pristine diamond in the rough of the rotting world around them. The people knew this, and in their heroes, they rejoiced.

Their reactions were myriad, varied as to each warrior's personality.

Raziel lead the pack, head held high and proud, clutching his scabbard to his waist with a gauntlet as he sought to control his limp. He gave off the silent pride that most warriors feel upon achievement in battle, and the triumphant aura of one who has personally claimed victory. His armor, battered, slit, soiled, and bloodied in its multiple hues of red, violet, and black, clattered loudly, but the noises of ill-fitted plate and steel were drowned out by the roaring of an ebullient crowd. Raziel did not hide it; he loved every moment. His entire existence seemed to have been set to the cries of plaudits and praise from the masses that flocked under his protective wings of bloody steel. Valor and Honor motivated him, and Glory sustained him.

Behind him, being propped by the Priestess, a bashful Uriel concentrated more upon the flower-strewn cobbles under his weak, uncooperative feet. Limping heavily, he nevertheless had a broad smile upon his face as his gauntlets clattered against each other and bounced off of his thigh with each step, his bare feet feeling the tickling caress of soft plant and the soothing, reassuring cool of stone. His own armor was nonexistant; what he did wear could not protect him at all. His sash and cape were tatters, their original color no longer visible under the blood and grime. His sword swung and bounced freely with each step, his scabbard had been destroyed and the sword hung by the hilt, suspended wih a leather thong. Izlude was dead to him now; He lived in Prontera now, and the colorful, lively, and healthy populace motivated him to greater feats of courage. He did not need their thanks, their praises fell upon unworthy ears. He only did what he needed for a people he loved with all of his heart and soul. If anything, he was merely repaying a debt that he owed from his earliest days, from that fateful morning in Izlude.

Beside him, smiling softly and nodding to several men and women on the sides of the road, Karmasutra walked. In comparison to the warriors, she was immaculate. Her robes were stitched and cleansed, the crosses and trim, while slightly tinged with burn and wound, showing white against her robe's own pink. Her blonde hair bounced about her head with each step, clean, if now coarse; She embodied the very essence of the healer, the ultimate, true form of the matronly nurse. She held the battered form of a hero in her arms, supporting him with her own body step after step. Of all of the men and woman in the procession, she was the most revered and loved by all. She knew this, but she did not gloat nor did she allow herself to fall into the pits of sinful pride. Rather, she humble accepted their applause, thanking them with her soulful eyes and softly-curved mouth. She accepted each praise, but she was not proud as Raziel was nor unduly humble like Uriel; and they loved her so much more for it.

In the back of the procession walked the bewildered Steel Eyes and the silently prideful Devilangel. The hunter was walking with his head down, more interested in the hand that held his own hostage then in the carpet of color or the crowd around them, his hair falling shortly about his face and shielding him from the frightening spectacle of so many happy people all around him. He was just a mercenary here, why were they so happy with him? Devilangel, the assassin with the mysterious chosen name, smirked and squeezed her own glove's prey once before smiling proudly at the crowds around them. Where he walked slightly hunched, wanting to escape from the city around him, she practically swaggered, wordlessly letting everyone around them know that she had had a hand in the cleansing. Her hand came up, exposing the signet of the Ordo in a wave, her katars clashing with each other as they hung from her neck over her bosom.

People loved to gossip about the warriors of the Ordos. The most prominent was, of course, the Ordo Vix Orbis. The Ordo of Faith, it was the group most closely tied to the Church of Prontera, and offered the most training for Crusaders, Monks, and Priests of all the Ordos known in Rune Midgar. Their ranks were colorful, with no set standard with which each member made his or her membership known save for their rings. It had been a hundred years since the Wars of Emperium had last finally ended, and the emblems of each ordo were now confined to their monasteries, never seen upon the posts that once heralded invader guild in times of old. As the Wars finally closed, five Orders had emerged victorious. The Ordo Vix Orbis had taken Prontera. Morocc, rogue state in the Desert and home of the murderous mercenaries, the Assassins, had fallen to the Ordo Chaos. Payon, the serene forest town, was taken by Ordo Pondera, the Order of Balance. Alberta was taken by the Ordo Igneus Procer, Order of the Fiery Prince, while Geffen was ruled over by the Ordo Leo Vallum, whose fierce Lionguard patrolled the streets of the chaotic town of Magic. Each Ordo allied with the other to form the Alliance of the Free States, and each city prospered greatly under their First Swords' rule. The Ordos held the real power; Tristan of Prontera, the supposed Emperor of Rune Midgar, was nothing more than a senile old man who clinged to intangible delusions of power, appearing in public only to perform weddings, in an attempt to gain power and respect with the people, or to speak, unwittingly, on the behalf of the First Swords.

People speculated... no, they knew the real power was held by First Sword Darius Ammanael of the Ordo Vix Orbis. He had been at the head of the guild in the Thousand-Year War of Empellium, crushing his opponents in the final days and bringing the then-chaotic Prontera under his iron boot. Upon word that the warring guilds had been quenched, his talents as Administrator began to shine, and the desolate, broken walls housing the desperate, wailing masses of the oppressed and fearful soon shone brightly with the hope of a new era. The people were happy once more, the city rebuilt to surpass its former glory. Prontera was the Empire's holy land, and people from all over Rune Midgar travelled to Prontera in pilgrimages and immigrations. The small town swiftly quadrupled in size in its first year under Darius' rule, and its population has continued to grow steadily, until it began to rival even Yuno, the Scholarly City of the Sky, in size and architectural triumph.

Raziel was heir apparent. In his short time in the Guild, he had proven himself most capable in the Ordo's battles, and Darius himself had taken a liking to the brooding, silently powerful young man. The First Sword's adjunct, a woman by the name of Emalie Amadeo, had met her death only weeks before Raziel had lead his team into the forest, slaughtered by a sniper's arrow without dignity or honor. It was suspected that, while the First Sword was still grieving and considering her replacement, Raziel Daltizius of Gonryun would ascend to Second-in-command. His only rivals were a man named Bartholomew Hempton and a woman known only by her chosen name, Wintrysong. Raziel despised the woman, but he greatly respected the man.

Wintrysong had entered the Ordo at the time that Darius had finishd crushing the last rebellious leaders of the Gold Vipers and the enigmatic Forgotten Covenant. The Vipers were subjugated, allowed to funtion only as a puppet military force commanded indirectly by the Ordo itself, while the Covenant had gone into hiding, in part from the Lord Knight's blade, and also in part of the terror the feminine High Witch had wrought upon the field of battle. Allies and enemies alike were incinerated and ravaged to pieces from the primal forces unleashed from her hands, her destructive and sadistic form a constant source of immolating fury. She was respected and feared by all who heard of her. It was as much by Darius' blade as by Wintrysong's rod that Prontera was conquered, if not more. She was conceited, prideful of her powers and arrogant to no end in public and private. Raziel often referred to her as a "pyromaniacal idiot of a whore," in addition to scores of other drawn-out and imaginative insults with which he assailed her behind her back. He despised the castrix, but he knew better than to anger her directly.

Bartholomew, one who had been in the Ordo since before Darius assumed power, was a quiet monk of silent power and deliberate mind. He was one of the most powerful and influential High Fists of the Ordo, a general with indespensible military tact and the respect of a hundred men and women who served directly under him. Raziel, a fellow High Fist, understood him and his history, and often praised him in the same breath with which he condemned Wintrysong.

The procession ended at the Prontera castle, where other members of the Ordo waited as the crowd outside the castle gradually dispersed, returning to their normal lives with vim and vigor. The High Fists and Tacticians of the Order were all present. The Ordo held, including Raziel, Bartholomew, and Wintrysong, a total of 10 commanding officers, and each of them were standing or sitting in the reception hall of the massive castle of marble and other stones.

Uriel picked up his head to gape at the High Witch sitting upon a lavish chair, sipping at white wine. She smirked into her glass as her cold grey eyes assessed his thin face; He was enamored of her, and she knew it very well. She recrossed her legs, her green robe shifting slightly as for a split moment a tantalizing portion of her body normally hidden by her gold and green casting dress was revealed to Uriel's flushing face. The trim of gold she wore at her shoulders and down the lapels of her robe contrasted brilliantly with the emerald of her wizarding robes. The silver chalice in her small, fleshy hand, held up to her full crimson lips, helped the signet of the Ordo upon her finger to stand out. She was of a healthy weight, and if she stood she would stand only up to Raziel's shoulder. Her hourglass form, while a little round, was definitely a favorite among the thoughts of many of the men in the room with her. She laughed at Uriel's flushing face under her breath, bringing her chalice down to rest on her lap as a finger-gloved hands reach up to brush back some of the long, crimson silk that hung down about her shoulders.

Uriel's eyes never left her head until Karmasutra had managed to drag him farther into the castle, bound for the healer's ward. Wintrysong's cruelly gleeful eyes rose to meet Raziel's, and the crusader turned away in visible disgust to address the man next to him. He was a short, pudgy Alchemist, dressed in red trim and brown fabric. His mahogany tunic barely contained his well-fed stomach, and his dull purple pants were tight around his thighs, though not overtly so. The portly merchant had waddled up to Raziel with a smile, extending his hand to the Crusader, which was accepted readily. "Raziel! Good to see you again, and in one piece! Amazing! You must truly be amazing to take only five people to rid us of an entire Abysscult! Those Wickedhearts weren't too hard for old Raziel now, where they?"

Coughing shortly, covering his mouth with his recently freed hand, Raziel shook his head, "This cult was hardly anything new, Rumbarrel. They thought a few plague petites would scare us, but they fell like flies. I have yet to encounter a cult that doesn't fall before me within two weeks."

Laughing jovially, the man called Rumbarrel's rum barrel jiggled wildly under his thin tunic, and he clapped at Raziel's battered armor, "And that's why you're a shoo-in for the Adjunct!" He nodded, his greasy black hair not moving at all from his scalp, and he took off his monacle to reach up to Raziel's face, "The First Sword really likes your work, son. He's constantly talking about how you were the single greatest initiation into the Ordo in his entire lifetime, save for himself of course." His lips parted into another shining, toothy grin as Raziel cocked his head to the side, eyes forming a look of mild surprise with no other form of emotion on his face. "You're one to keep an eye on, yessirree, soon you'll be-"

"As fat as you, Lardbucket!" Laughing loudly as the Alchemist wheeled to attempt to land a pudgy fist on his chest, the bard behind him sidestepped him easily and have his head a light slap for good measure. The entire room, save for Raziel and two others, burst into laughter at the spectacle, and even Rumbarrel had to smile bashfully at the musician. He wore a birght blue jacket over his white tunic, the bard did, and his white pants ended at blue shoe-covers, his boots a dark tan. His thick, blue felt cape dropped at his side as he hefted up an ornate guitar to his shoulder, a rogueish grin set upon his face as he repositioned a Robin Hood's cap at a jaunty angle in his short, blonde hair. "Calm down, little man, you know I'm only kidding around. I love you like a brother." He reached down to pat the Alchemist on the shoulder, who proceeded to find himself another seat.

Raziel's eyes turned to the Tactician. Mooncant, as he called himself, was also known as Johann Smit. He was an irreverent, rakish fellow, typical of the musician. He had a rather uncanny mind, however, and while he was just as playful as Uriel was, he knew when to be serious, an that was when his amazing military intellect came into play. Battles were won on the battlefield by the warriors; they were decided in the planning halls by the tacticians, and foremost was this bard. He was also extremey good friends with Rumbarrel, and it was understood that the two had known each other for years before they had each joined the ordo. Rumbarrel had, of course, been much slimmer for his tasks.

The bard only shrugged at Raziel, his toothy grin on his own slim, extremely handsome face never wavering, and he gave Raziel a greatly-exaggerated bow before wandering off to another part of the hall, apparently looking for more winebarrels; the one he had cracked open earlier was finished, and Wintrysong was enjoying the last of it. Behind her, meditating silently by the wall, was the monk Bartholomew. He was clad in alternating black and white clothing, the jacket and pants that is typical of monks, symbolizing the yin-yan, or balance in life and death. His short, white hair floated softly with the silent, imperceptible energies aroused by his meditation, and the spirits garnered from his own body floated about his head benignly, extensions of his soul made visible. One hand had on a glove, which had five dangerous knives placed upon each finger, shaped just like a human hand. The other had the guild insignia wrapped about a finger, just as the arm itself had a rosary wrapped about it tightly, fingers counting through the beads slowly and deliberately to the tune of the monk's mouthed prayers.

After Karmasutra had returned with her report, they all waited for the First Sword to enter the hall to begin the meeting. They were all assembled, the High Fists and the Tacticians of the Ordo, in their myriad walks of life and professions. Rumbarrel the Alchemist, Mooncant the Bard, Bartholomew the Monk, Raziel the Crusader, Karmasutra the Priestess, and Wintrysong the High Witch, were the most known of the ten. Added to their ranks were a Knight clad in brown armor with long green hair named Reginald Argest, an Assassin in black known only as Kalmah, a matronly castrix known as Rouge, bedecked in a rose casting robe with purple streamers, a jack-of-all-trades with bushy blue locks self-styled and still known simply as Novice, and finally the raven-haired huntress in silver leather armor known as Luna. These ten men and women were part of the officer council that headed and governed the Ordo and, subsequently, Prontera and indirectly the whole of Rune Midgar.

From an archway leading further into the castle came the clumps of boots against stone, steel upon the floor sending sudden bursts of disturbed sound across its surface, to catapult into the air and shatter against the stone walls and eventually disperse into the ears of all present. It was a brisk pace. Within moments, the tall, muscular, and extremely fit form of the aging First Sword appeared in the hall. His golden armor shone in the torchlight, and his rounded, strong steel plates bore the marks of a thousand battles and a million adversaries. His cape, long, cerulean, flowing regally from his ornate pauldrons to the heels of his equally ornate boots, his baroque and beautiful armor was contrasted and highlighted by the dark fabric. Upon his cuirass was etched the sign of an aquilar, a mighty eagly taking flight. His otherh and gripped a spear, using it as a staff as he walked towards them, his face heavily creased, topped with greying black hair and a strong beard of pitch, his green eyes shining out from within the still ruggedly handsome, olive-tinted face. He stood, all full 7 feet of him, in front of all of his officers, towering over even Raziel and bringing with him the fullest, most complete sense of power and awe to envelop and seep into every body in the room, from Raziel to Wintrysong. No one could take their eyes off of him, and he smiled sagely at the open respect and admiration lain upon him from the warriors and casters who gathered around him like children around their father. He had not shown himself to anyone in a month, not since the death of Emalie, and the shock of actually seeing him in person, and the surprise to find a smiling Darius, had jolted everyone to a new respect for the hardened veteran and strong-willed ruler.

He waved at all of them, gesturing to the several seats arranged haphazardly around the room, his rich, strong voice echoing in the empty stones of the castle, "Gather yourselves, we have some items of business to attend to before you can return to your daily lives." The officers were loathe to ignore him, and soon the seats were put together in a neat arrangement of 10 around his own seat, which was no more ornate than their own seats. He sat down, placing his halberd gently upon the ground next to him, and he leaned back in his seat, maile crunching against itself as his body rested upright. He looked at each and every one of his officers straight in the eye, a grandfatherly love and concern emanating from him and pervading the air, relaxing even the extremely uptight Raziel and bringing him the serious attentions of Mooncant and Wintrysong.

Sighing loudly, the old Paladin placed his hands on his thighs and began to speak to the assembly, "First off, I would like to extend congratulations to Tactician Wintrysong and High Fist Raziel for their successful campaigns against the Abysscults that have been popping up near the towns of the Empire. They've done an extremely valuable service to all God-fearing citizens by ridding the lands of these wicked worshipors of death and darkness." Wintrysong's face split into a wide grin of glee while Raziel's pride was a bit more controlled, as the officers around them clapped in unison for them. The First Sword himself joined in, then stopped, followed shortly by everyone else at the gathering. "Now I believe that a majority of our concerns are past, so now we may devote tonight to seeking out the new second-in-command. I have been podering for almost a month on who I should elect as my newest adjunct, the one who will be my direct aide in running the Ordo and will ascend to First Sword when I die." He looked around at those assembled before them, seeing the hopefulness in everyone, save the assassin, Kalmah. He continued, "I have thought carefully, and I have narrowed my choices down to two people." He looked at Raziel, "Of course, I have considered giving the position to High Fist Raziel, who has shown the most potential and the most faithful service in his time in our Ordo..." his emerald orbs travelled to the High Witch, "And my most faithful and helpful officer, Tactician Wintrysong. It would have been dishonor to have not considered you to be my Right Hand." Where Raziel had shown only a grateful smile of silent admiration, Wintrysong had fluttered her eyelashes at the First Sword and given him a wild grin as she crossed her arms and brought a hand to rest at her chin. Darius blinked a few times, flushing just a little before returning his attention to everyone else. "I know you all have your personal preferences, so I decided, why don't we hear their reasons for the promotion? High Fist? Tactician? You are both equally talented and qualified in your own particular fields, which of you would be best suited as my successor?"

Wintrysong wasted no time in speaking, raising herself from her chair and smiling to everyone in the room, then looking right into the eyes of the First Sword, "First, I would like to thank you, First Sword, for this great honor of even being considered for th position. I would like to assure you, that I will continue to be just as effective and just as good with the added responsibilities. I was at your side during the War of Emperium, was I not? Was I not faithful, loyal, and true through your campaigns? Did I not help you bring the Gold Vipers Empire to our feet and send the Forgotten Covenant scurrying into their holes? I assure you, First Sword, that I would be the right choice, for I have power, I have experience, and I wear clothing that is completely intact in your presence." Flashing a mean-spirited grin at Raziel, she turned to expose her skimpy, but intact, uniform to the First Sword to punctuate her point, and she added, "Unlike Raziel, I could bring a certain charm to the office that I think you could quite like, First Sword." She smiled sweetly at the First Sword's blinking, flustered face and she lowered herself to sit... rather, to lounge on her chair, picking up her chalice and polishing off the last of the wine in the argent goblet. Her eyes and smile issued a challenge to the angered crusader, and she ignored the whisperings from Karmasutra and Rouge behind her.

Raziel, angered at the brazenness of the slutty excuse for a Tactician, livid for her attempted use of her body to buy an office, stood promptly. He held himself rigidly upright, his armor ragged and pitiful and a new source of well-hidden shame to the crusader, but he still gripped his sword at his waist, and spoke evenly and calmly, his eyes filled with the conviction that weighted his strong, confident voice, "I am Raziel Daltizius, High Fist to the Ordo Vix Orbis, and have personally seen the death and cleansing of hundreds of Wickedhearts and the banishment of scores of Daemonic beings, often at my own hands. I am a rock, a fortress and a shield. I am a Fortis Tutor, and I bring God's Will to the battlefield. Every enemy of mine cowers at my name, and recoils from my voice. Not one of the foul heretics and followers of the Darkness, the Abyss, or the Blight has ever stood against me and lived for very long. As the adjunct, I will work with the new resources at my disposal to root out more heretics, to bring them to justice and to cleanse our fine cities and our holy nation of the abominations that seek to tear out the roots of society from the festering holes they have crawled from. The Daemon falls and the Wicked tremble... for I am Raziel Daltizius, and I bow before no horror or mortal!" The audience, including Wintrysong, was stunned into silence by the sheer force of Raziel's passionate declaration, and for several minutes, Raziel stood, strong and proud, and looked into the faces of each and every man and woman present, his expression softening at Karmasutra's face, tender and gentle eyes embracing her image, then hardening upon Wintrysong's stunned, disapproving features, his mouth turned into a frown of contempt as his eyes denounced her silently. He added, almost inaudibly, "And no whore will take from me my destiny." Slowly, he sat back down again, turning his gaze to the floor as the High Witch's face contorted into barely surpressed rage.

The First Sword's face hardened, and he cleared his throat. Picking up his spear from the floor, he stood and said to the congregation, "I believe this was a mistake. This meeting is adjourned. Tactician Wintrysong, High Fist Raziel," he glared into each of their eyes as he addressed them, "please come with me." The two enemies stood as the golden-dressed paladin spun on his feet and walked away briskly.

Within a week, Wintrysong's reputation plummeted among many of the officers, save for the easy-going Mooncant, the silent Bartholomew, and the stony Kalmah, and the animosity between Tactician Wintrysong and Adjunct Raziel Daltizius grew; almost to the point where the two could not be trusted in the same room together, alone or otherwise. As the days progressed, the officers could tell that Wintrysong, one who was known for keeping passionate grudges, was becoming obsessed with finding ways to ruin Raziel and gain favor with the First Sword once more. Raziel, on the other hand, was more interested in his own pet project than in finding more energy to hate Wintrysong with. His first order of business was to begin an Inquisition, determined to root out the Wickedhearts before they materialized in more Abysscults. He out his heart and soul into the project, taking secret pleasure from its success and progress. Darius had opposed the project, but what he did not know would not harm the ambitious. He had carefully kept it a secret from everyone, trusting only the officers Karmasutra and Kalmah with the knowledge of his undertaking. Beyond that, he had attempted to make the operation as secret and hidden away as possible, while the fingers of his program spread out and latched themselves onto every aspect of Pronteran life. Wintrysong still had a following of her own, however- she was not completely ruined- and she had a very intricate web of spies embedded in the cities of Rune Midgar, that reported her everything that happened. They had, of course, uncovered Raziel's secret witch-hunting program. She knew, and she ached to reveal everything to the First Sword and fellow officers.

But, after all, who would trust a whore? 


	4. Chapter II: The Secret and the Light

"So what did you want with me, Rum? Don't we need to be ready at the fortress for whenever chaos strikes or something?" Mooncant was reclining against a willow on the grassy knoll as he spoke,setting his cap down beside him as he raised an eyebrow quizzically at the rotund Alchemist laying next to him. 

Rumbarrel shrugged a little, his eyes picking out dogs and ladies from the clouds lolling lazily overhead. "I just wanted some time alone with you, is all, buddy. We're officers, but that doesn't mean that we can't just goof off every now and then, right?"

Laughing, Mooncant turned his head the way his friend was looking, joining in his activity. "That's true, that is very true. All work and no play makes the duo a dull couple." He sighed and stretched out a little, using his arms as pillows for his head. "Remember before we joined the guild? All the parties and the company?"

"Ah, those were the days. You provided the entertainment, and I provided the alcohal that actually made it entertaining." Rumbarrel chuckled as Mooncant ribbed him with his shoe. "I wish we could just go back to that time. You and me, brothers, not in battle, but in booze and bashes."

Mooncant shrugged a bit, "Well, we can still be like that. This guild's not that bad. Sure, that new Adjunct can be a little harsh sometimes, but it's not like we aren't allowed to have a little fun in the fortress every once in a while, right?" Rumbarrel sighed, and did not reply. Moonchant looked over, raising an eyebrow, "You okay there, buddy?"

Rumbarrel sighed again, shaking his head, "Nothing's wrong. It's just..."

"Just what?"

"We've done nothing but kill, plunder, and murder the entire time we've been in this guild. What's the point? This guild asks us to be savages for God. Why do we need to be? Why did we join in the first place?" He looked over at Mooncant's uncharacteristically drawn face. "Why, Johann?"

Mooncant was silent for a bit, and his voice was low and level as he replied, "You know why we joined, Kharic." His eyes hardened as he looked into Rumbarrel's, "You know exactly why we joined."

The other man's face was pleading, his features drawn to a mask of barely contained inner turmoil, "It's not right, buddy. Not right at all."

"I don't want to continue this conversation..." Mooncant whispered, staring at an indeterminate point in the grass in front of him. "Please, something else."

Shaking his head, Rumbarrel turned his attentions back to the sky. "What do you think about the new adjunct?"

"What do you mean?"

The alchemist shrugged, "I mean whatever."

Laughing a little, Mooncant scartched at the back of his hand as he said, "Raziel isn't too bad a kid. He's certainly got a lot of potential as a leader. A lot of moxie too."

"Yeah, but he's also got a stick in his ass that just won't come out. If anything, if he wanted the strong and silent type, the First Sword should have gone with Bartholomew."

Grinning with a chuckle, Mooncant looked over at his old friend again, "What, you don't like Wintrysong?"

Rumbarrel's nose crinkled, "Of course not, she's a whore, and the worst of the worst. And I've known a lot of whores."

"So has your bed." They both laughed a little, even though the joke wasn't all that funny. "Well, she's not so bad as everyone says."

"Pssh, she's a violent little bitch." Rumbarrel glared up at the sky, shooting daggers at Wintrysong's shape in the heavenly bodies floating overhead.

"She's not so. She can be nice, even tender sometimes." Johann shrugged a little.

"Johann, I know you pride yourself on your abilities at staying neutral when it comes to officer squabbles, but this is not just another feud. There's no neutral, you either on the right side or the wrong side about her."

Mooncant burst out laughing, "Listen to yourself, Lardbarrel! 'Right side or wrong side'? You're joking! There IS no right side or wrong side to this!" Rumbarrel glared at him as he continued, "Rummy, we all have our weaknesses and strengths. We can't forget our own and simply point out another's. We can't let ourselves be blinded by hatred."

"She's got a few sticks up her ass too, bud, and you're only defending her because one of them is yours." There was silence, a very long, uneasy silence. "I just don't want you to get hurt, buddy." Rumbarrel's eyes were the epitome of concern, but they were lost on Mooncant's darkened mood.

"Kharic... I need to go back to the castle." The bard stood, brushing grass from his trousers and cape. Without a further word or glance, he slung his mandolin over his shoulder and stalked off, disappearing beyond the farthest knoll as Rumbarrel looked on after him.

It was a serene day in the metropolis known as Prontera. The skies lay bare overhead, shedding from the celestial body the light that it had hidden away the previous sequence of days within a cloak of dark cloud. Birds flew in their flocks and formations high above, as townspeople milled about in their colorful garb and gaudy stalls, merchants pandering to the tastes of this particular day's crowd as men and women alike hawked their wares over the white cobbles. Children darted back and forth between their mothers and the other people of the crowd, reenacting grand battles and desperate assassinations with sticks and other makeshift weaponry, unheeded and unnoticed in the bustle of the marketplace. Pack birds groaned under the weight of their burdens, the loud, powerful Pecos lumbering through the streets behind their owners, lead by strong leather leashes. Trade was blossoming today, and merchants from Morocc, Aldebaran, Geffen, Alberta, and Yuno all were in the central square, proudly flaunting the flamboyant colors and crests of their hometowns. Conspicuous in the crowds, the warriors and mercenaries hired to protect the caravans walked and stopped, many succumbing to the flavors of the market and buying exotic fruits and meats to bring home to friends, families, or just for themselves. Others kicked away or offered food and money to the numerous beggars that arose from nowhere, plying their own unique trade within the throng of wealthy merchants, alchemists, and blacksmiths, and their customers. The whole of the streets were bathed in a full spectrum of the human race.

And the dark, searching eye of Raziel looked on at the gaudy ants under his gaze, an arm bracing him against the balcony and the other hanging lazily over the edge, dangling in air below him, seeming to carelessly reach for one of the multicolored insects in the streets below to inspect further or simply to crush and toss aside. His face held the very slightest of signs of the incursion of boredom, his eyes still wide open and alert though his mouth had slackened and his body had slumped against the stone balcony he now stood in to gaze at the market in full bloom before him. An impudent zephyr floated about his head and body, pulling at his cape and tugging at the hair hanging over his face, before swirling away to nothingness behind him. A sudden slap to the back had him jerk upright, snapping his head to his side to see Uriel greet him, the same friendly smile still plastered to the younger man's face, beaming as he took a spot next to the older crusader. The violet-haired man still wore that feminine ribbon. His choice in hairstyle was an abomination, and Raziel wanted desperately to rip that disgusting ribbon out of the knight's hair and toss it to the buildings below.

But he did not, and Uriel's piercing blue eyes left his own sullen brown ones to survey the spectacle in the streets. After a moment of contemplation, then a deep breath, taking in the sweet scent of the pristine noontime, he spoke again, saying, "Pretty day out today, huh?"

Raziel shrugged his heavily-armored shoulders and turned his waning attention back to the crowd below him, "The weather has been alright, if that's what you mean. The day's been rather uneventful, however. Somewhat boring."

The violet-clad knight laughed a little, responding, "After what happened last week, and all the noise Wintrysong's made about slaughtering you in your sleep, I should think that a quiet day would be a good one for you." He turned, leaning his back against the balcony and propping himself up with his elbows, hands resting safely over the balcony floor. His face turned slightly to allow him to regard Raziel thoughtfully for a moment, before tilting slightly as he asked the Adjunct, "So, Raziel, big guy, what's it like being the second-in-command? Adjunct to the First Sword? Darius' right hand man? I haven't had a chance to bother you in a week or two, how have you been doing? What have you been up to?"

Raziel's eyes darted to collide with Uriel's glance as the silver-armored warrior replied, "I've been alive and well. The new position has granted me a glorious amount of prestige and power, and I have enjoyed working as closely as I have with the First Sword. Beyond that, however, is my business and mine alone, and definitely not something I wish to discuss with a man-woman who insists on wearing that disgusting ornament in his hair."

An eyebrow on Uriel's face arched upward, as the smile on his lips faltered under the weight of the uncalled-for insult. He cleared his throat, then painted the grin back on his face, asking again, "Well, how has Karma been? I haven't seen her in a while either. Has she been with you a lot in the past week? What has she been working on?"

Raziel's eyes narrowed suspiciously, looking the knight up and down before his lips moved to issue a reply, "Why all the questions? What's your reason for pestering me with your idiocy today, Zarium?"

Uriel shrugged and laughed, "Oh, I don't know. I guess I was just bored today. The monastary creeps me out, so I try to stay away from there as often as I can help it, and nobody but you and Moonchant have been in the castle all day."

"Why don't you go bother Moonchant then and leave me alone?"

Uriel shrugged again, "He left. Rumbarrel showed up and just pulled him away, and they left, without a single goodbye or sign that I was alive." He shook his head and sighed, "I just haven't mustered the energy or will to just go out and do anything myself, either. I guess I'm bringing this on myself."

Raziel turned away and resumed staring at the crowd, smirking a little as he noticed an assassin's form darting between merchants and warriors. His agents were working again today, seeking out signs of heresy among the marketplace. That was a good sign indeed. The blacks and reds of his witchhunters blended in with the crowd below, and they could easily be mistaken for more of the mercenaries hired to protect the merchants. They would never be suspected by anyone. Already, two had apprehended a man as he was talking to a decoy, and with minimum hassle or suspicion had dragged him from the crowd, writing him off as a murderer of merchants on their way to the city. All believed them and let them go unmolested, against the man's cries of innocence; cries which, though barely audible to Raziel, even so high up as he was, were lost completely on Uriel.

Uriel had noticed his smirk, however, and leaned over, looking down at the spot he thought the crusader was staring at. "Why so happy all of a sudden, Raziel? Found a pretty girl in the crowd? Where is she?" He stared, blinking and searching, into the pandemonium of the midday market as Raziel, startled, growled below his breath and stepped back from the ledge.

"What makes you think there's a woman of interest down there, Zarium? Maybe I simply thought of a small joke or a happy occurance?"

Uriel waved it off, "I've seen men smile that one grin over and over, and every time it was for a special lady. Come on, Raz, tell me, where is she?"

Cocking an eyebrow, Raziel smirked a little more, saying, "She's right behind the blacksmith's shop. Keep looking, you should see her sooner or later. She has red hair and is wearing the blue dress of an alchemist."

A few minutes passed before Uriel spoke again, "Hey, Raziel, which one is she? I found... Raziel?" He turned his head, then his body, looking around the room. "Raziel? Where'd you go?" His eyes travelled his surroundings, an armory in the side of the castle with a table, some chairs, and suits of ornamental armor set within an amorphous cell of stonewall and granite floor and scarlet carpet. A moment passed, and the Knight let his head fall dejectedly to his chest, his body slumping a little with it as a sigh floated from his mouth to rest upon the stone at his feet, his only companion in the deserted room.

"Don't speak to me." Raziel slammed the heavy wooden door behind him as he began pacing around the room. His taloned hands grabbed at books, flipped through them, and tossed them back to their shelves, as Karma stood up slowly from Raziel's desk, putting her papers into a folder.

"Raziel, what is wrong? Her concern was conveyed through her voice and her face, but her warm eyes were blocked coldly by Raziel's own harsh ones.

"I said don't speak to me!" he growled as he finally picked up what he was looking for, and roughly pushed past her to sit at his own seat. He lay the book open before him and began poring over its pages, rereading the stories of Darkness defeated he had read almost every day since he had become the Adjunct to Darius. He barely looked at her as she started to leave the room, but his voice spoke up, "Why is he here?"

Her hand faltered at the knob, and she turned her head to the crusader. "Who, Raziel?"

"Why is that knight in this castle? Why is he an officer?" He slammed the book shut and glared up at her, absolutely livid with her.

She sighed, shaking her head as she turned and leaned back against the door, papers held protectively over her bosom. "Raziel, we've been over this countless times..."

"I had told you that that man was a fool, an idiot, an... an... an absolute disgrace to our guild! To the leadership of our guild! Unfit for the position! And you turned around and nominated him for High Fist behind my back!"

Sighing exasperatedly, Karmasutra leaned her head back against the door for a moment before sternly scowling at Raziel, "I did nothing behind your back, and I have told you that the man is a natural born leader. Do you not see how he inspires the men and women before each battle? Do you not remember how many times he's risked his own life over and over again for the lives of all with him? Do you not remember the many times he's saved even your life, Adjunct?"

Groaning, Raziel closed his eyes and let a fist ball up upon his desk. "He has ruined just as many battle plans and has risked the lives of just as many men and women's lives as he has saved. The man is insufferably arrogant, Chaplain."

"So are you." These words brought his glare full-force upon her face.

For a long time, the Chaplain and the Adjunct scowled at each other, before Karmasutra spoke again, softer this time, appeasingly, "The people love him, Raziel. He's an asset to you as much as the rest of the guild. Please... just give him a chance to prove himself. One mission is all he needs."

Raziel glowered at his book for a moment, a hand unclasping the gauntlet on his other arm. Slowly he looked back up at her, asking, "Can you at least get him to start wearing a helm of any kind? If not for the looks he's so worried about, then for some real protection?" He finished removing his arm protection and reached for a quill and some parchment. "If he's going to go risking his life, he may as well at least try to protect himself from further brain damage."

The priestess grinned, as a hand reached for a knob, "I'll try, but I can't promise you anything, Adjunct."

"Thank you." He lowered his head to read over the document before him. He spoke up just as Karma was beginning to leave, "Another thing, Chaplain... It seems that there's some trouble brewing in the outskirts of Geffen. We have been asked to send one of our Officers to investigate. As young Zarium has confessed boredom to me earlier today, I want him sent to investigate." He looked up into Karma's hopeful eyes, "Maybe this is the mission he'll prove himself in, I hope?"

She nodded, truly gladdened by this order, and bowed slightly "I'm certain he will perform extremely well, Adjunct." The door opened, and then fell shut heavily as the retreating sounds of the Guild Chaplain echoed down the stone corridors. Raziel simply sat, listening to the footsteps fade while staring at the book before him.

A slight noise betrayed the presence of another in the room, and his head snapped to the side, "What news bring you?"

The shadowy voice of a Moroccan assassin arrived to his ear as the female hidden by the window replied, "Heresy, my lord."


	5. Chapter III: Wretched Omen

The bird stamped the cobbles he was perched on, crooning indignantly as a knight clumsily attempted to seat himself amongst its shimmering plumage. The saddle was a simple, well-broken-in leather hold, well-padded with saddle blankets, but for some odd reason Uriel had a hard time getting into a comfortable position. A foot accidentally jabbed the giant Peco's ribs, and the animal squawked loudly as Karma struggled with its reins, speaking soft and soothing words as Uriel finally found his proper seating. As the Peco-Peco calmed itself, bowing its head to Karma's gentle hands, Uriel reached down and patted a bare hand to the beast's neck. "Sorry about that, winged one. I've not had much practice on the likes of you." Karma's hands stroked the bird's massive and dangerous beak gently, with the rhythm of an accomplished harpist, as she glanced up to Uriel's face, smiling gently. The knight leaned back in the saddle, taking up the reins, and he looked all about him to insure that all his equipment was ready: His herb-satchel, medicine bag, sleeping equipment, extra bracers, an extra sword, a pack of about five reddish-colored potions, his own sword, and a cloak for warmth and camoflauge. With these items, he felt confident that he could handle a simple 5 day trek to Geffen. 

Karma quitely withdrew her hands from the purring bird's head, and kissed it gently before sliding to its side, taking Uriel's hand. "Uriel, please take good care of him. Goldstream has been with Raziel since he first became a Fortis Tutor, and he's his favorite. He's loaning him to you in good faith and trust, Evertu Tricerto. Please show him you are capable."

Uriel sighed, patting the back of the cooing bird's head a little, "I'll do my best. I like this one, he's a lot gentler than most of the other birds."

"Raziel trained him to be so." Karma smiled, reaching to her belt for something.

"Raziel probably cares more about this bird than me." Uriel grinned just a little, scoffing as he pulled hishand back and replaced its glove. Karma reached up and placed a small pouch in the knight's hand, and Uriel took a moment to look inside, finding bits of some strange type of fruit.

He looked down questioningly at Karma, "What's this? A treat for Goldstream?"

The priestess smiled and shook her head, and she closed the bag for him. "It's dried Mestala fruit. If you ever get tired of the herbs in your pack, try some. It tastes a lot better than the foods we usually eat here in Prontera."

Uriel smiled, reaching down in his saddle to kiss Karma on her reddening cheek, "Thank you very much, dear Chaplain. I'll try to make it last the trip." With these words, he lightly tapped Goldstream's sides and clucked his tongue, and the aurulent beast slowly began padding along the cobbles and out of Prontera. On the horizon, the sun was now setting, dividing the sky in a brilliant cascade of oranges and reds, all fading upward to the midnight blues of the twilight. Uriel continued to look back towards the Priestess as he trotted away, smiling reassuringly, until he finally brought his face forward and snapped the reins, shouting "HYAH!" into the sunset, steed carrying him over the horizon with the speed of a sunbeam.

Karma simply stood, a hand gently and slowly touching her cheek as she watched him ride off. Her other hand came up, too late, to weakly wave goodbye, and she continued waving, even when his figure had disappeared into the sun. Casting her eyes to the ground, she turned and walked only a few paces before running into a figure who had been standing silently in the shadows behind them throughout the whole episode. The Ordo Chaplain looked up into the eyes of the White Assassin, who spoke quickly and quietly, "Raziel has need of us, Chaplain."

As they strode instep down the darkened streets, illuminated briefly every time Luna clawed her way past the majestic steeples of the sanctuaries in the city, Karma stared at the ground and breathed quiet, shuddering breaths. They were silent, save for the click of their boots and pumps on the cobbles, until Karma spoke softly, "What's happened, Angel?"

The assassin cross just let out a sharp, mirthless laugh. "A botched interrogation. Old Ironlimb finally messed up, and the suspect is almost dead. Too injured to talk."

"If that's all, why are we needed? What's happened because of Giron's failed interrogation?"

"The man's followers know where he is, and the only information we gleaned from him was the knowledge they were on their way to free him. Apparently he's been preaching in other towns for a while now, and has amassed a rather sizeable gathering of fools and apostates."

Karma shuddered out a sigh of disgust, "There will always be fools who don't realize how well they're being treated. The land's been at peace for hardly two years, and they still want to fight. Those stupid pawns..."

"Yes, those stupid pawns are converging on our town, so now we must make ready to meet them at the gates. Karma, gather your forces and head to the western gate. You'll be stationed there alongside Rouge. We have found enough archers and hunters to hold off the majority of infantry and cavalry that might rush us, but we are short on magical defense. Pray they don't have any well-trained wizards in their ranks." The assassin smiled again, disappearing as she walked into the shadows that filled the streets. "Have a fun night, Chaplain."

Silence overtook the city as the assassin cross disappeared completely.

A sudden chill caused Karma to stop and look Northward. For a moment, the Priestess just stood, and shivered.

It was a dark, dingy hell. Rats scurried among the holes in the stone walls, as the wails of tormented souls rang out from the numerous cells hidden in the darkness, barricaded with sharp and corroded iron bars. Prisoners lay shackled by their wrists to the walls behind them, and few made any signs of still being alive, or even of caring to live. From somewhere in the forsaken depths the sounds of one being actively tortured for information could be heard: Hideous wailings and the sounds of iron tearing flesh, of fire searing through skin, of death through the thin masquerade of interrogation.

He sat there, chained as all the others to the wall. He was a skeleton with skin as his only clothing. His nails were overgrown, his hair matted and filthy as it hung down over what was left of his face. He shuddered with every ragged breath, each torturous lungful of air passed between his chapped lips and down his raw throat. From every opening of his face, blood had flowed and caked around as it dried. His eye, half open, was yellowed and bore witness to the thousand horrors his body had been through.

He was no longer a man. He was... nothing.

He sat in the darkness, much as he had the day before, and the day before that. Time melded from hour to hour. It was endless, it was without record and impossible to account for. It was always dark here, and the darkness robs the soul of its light, its hope.

Another man sat beside him. But he was not like him. He was well-dressed. He was clean. He was smiling, and healthy, and full of color. He wasn't chained, but rather he held his hands in his lap, clasped, as if he was simply waiting for the barwench to bring him his meal. His tophat was set at an angle, crooked over his left eye as he peered over to the wretched man's face, a toothy grin set upon his jovial face. After a very long silence of this strange man simply staring at the deformed creature beside him, a very weak and dry "What do you want?" finally heaved itself out of the prisoner's mouth.

"What I want is simple. I want your freedom."

There was another silence as the half-dead wretch digested the snappy answer, and softly responded "Why mine?"

Tophat never lost his grin as he continued his stare, and replied as quickly as before, "I've been watching you. I know your spirit's print by heart, and when I close my eyes your aura dances beneath my vision. You show extreme promise to me, young Alchemist. This is truly an injustice to have you locked up in this dungeon, to have these self-righteous fools torture you and break your delicious spirit in the name of their 'God'." Every single word was spoken as if the whole thing was a joke to this strange creature, and he shifted himself so as to kneel down in front of the chained one, looking up into his eyes through the bloodied locks of white hair, "I know you and your kind. I know that you can and will be better, and I know tonight will be the turning point in your entire existence."

"...I'm a heretic... I have no destiny... I am nothing..."

"Don't let such foolish worries trouble you, my good man! They brand what they do nto understand as evil and destroy it. Why do they do that?"

"...It is evil..."

"No!" Tophat laughed out loud, a sound that clashed headlong to the endless torment swirling in the darkness. Several corpse-like prisoners nearby stirred with the sound, and everyone in earshot felt a strange warmth writhing through their veins. "They destroy what they do not understand... because they are frightened by it! These men are small, they are weak! They hold sway over the populace only through their petty 'God' and through their terrorism and philisophical opium!" Life flickered in the wretch's eye, as it slowly moved itself up to look at the man before it. Tophat continued, softer and lower this time, "I come for your freedom... I will set in motion your destiny, and through you, they will come to know... me!"

The prisoner's eye widened as his face contorted into the sheerest vision of utter terror as Tophat's face shone with the light of a thousand suns, the entire dungeon filling with unholy luminescence as the man's devilish laughter rang clear through the basalt walls. The entire structure shook on its foundation, and the dying everywhere writhed where they lay, screaming in time with the laughter. Guardsmen clambered through the halls, attempting to find the source, but as they lay hands upon the bars of the cell Wretch was kept in, they howled in surprise and terror, their gauntlets, then the rest of their armor, glowing bright orange-red as their bodies combusted, reducing each and every one of them to stock-rigid skeletons of ash and smoke, before they all crumbled into mounds of soot. Wind from an unknown source coursed through the halls, and the dust of all the prisoners and guardsmen swirled away with what used to be the iron bars. All the while, the man still barked his daemonic laughter, and the light still burned itself into the Wretch's eye, as he was held mute by the horror that gripped his mind and paralyzed his body.

Suddenly as it had begun, the light was gone. The laughter had stopped. All was dead and quiet, save for Wretch. His hands fell to his sides, the iron shackles reduced to soot, and he blinked over and over again to regain his sight in the sudden pitch darkness. There was a silence, as he kneeled, holding himself up with his hands and panting. He felt warm, warmer than he had felt in the longest time, and his entire body coursed with newfound energy and strength. Through the ratty hair covering his face, his eye darted all around, finding nothing but ashes and stone in the pitch of the dungeon's darkness. He found himself formulating a plan of escape in his mind, and hysterical laughter shook his body as he realized... he was free!

His body went rigid and his laughter stopped as he felt a single command imbed itself within his mind.

"Go."

And he was up, running, and gone.


End file.
